


A Taste For It

by salem_student



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Canonical Character Death, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:02:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27119968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salem_student/pseuds/salem_student
Summary: This is set just after S4E13, but they've found a way to bring Q back to life. It's gonna have some nice soft bits, but also a ton of angst so read the tags carefully.Title taken from Pharmacy by Isaac Dunbar
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, Rupert Chatwin/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

Eliot stood in the dull corridor, leaning on his stupid stick, impatiently. Behind this door, this stupid wooden fire door was Quentin, and no-one was letting him in to see him. At first, it was, you’re too weak to see anyone, and then everyone was visiting him except Quentin and Alice of all people had told him that Quentin was ill. Then he’d been pissed at not being able to see him. He got it. Of course, he got it, magic clean rooms are a thing, but couldn’t he wear one of those stupid hazmat suits? But today Q had been moved into a regular ward, well still ICU, but not - creating an entirely new body out of the fragments we could recover from the mirror world. Eliot should be allowed in to see him now, Alice had for god’s sake. But he guesses almost killing yourself for someone else means more than because of someone else.

The door swings up, and Eliot pulls himself up to his full height, wincing as his abs reluctantly cooperated. Lipson just sighed, “ I’ve told you I can’t let you in yet. Not until he wakes up.” She said, putting her gloves and masks into a bin and walking down the corridor. Eliot followed, god how does someone with such small legs walk so fast? She takes pity on him and stops at the end of the hall. Eliot’s red-faced and panting, you spend a month exclusively prone, and it does more damage than years of all the drugs you could possibly imbibe. He hasn’t even been smoking; this is monumentally unfair. “Go home.” Eliot stares at her blankly, doesn’t she understand that home is behind that door? It’s absurd to imagine that home could be anywhere else. “ You don’t even have to leave campus. Fogg’s permitted you to retake the year, so until September you get your room and zero obligations, but getting better. Take the opportunity.”

Eliot laughs at that, a high incredulous laugh accompanied by a wave of his hand. “ I thought I was better; that’s why you’re letting me leave at all.” 

“ No, I said you’re not in imminent danger anymore and getting back to your life would be a good idea. You’ve still got a long way to go.” Lipson says, exasperated. “ Did you fill your prescription?” At Eliot’s obstinate look she sighs and pulls out her prescription pad, “ It’s stupid to refuse medicine you need for someone who isn’t even awake to have an opinion on whether it counts as breaking your sobriety.” She hands him the slip of paper. Glaring at her Eliot takes it and scrunches it up into his pocket, next to the last prescription. “Go.” 

Eliot doesn’t take anything for the first three days, doesn’t even drink. He has glimpses of memories of Quentin yelling at the monster for using and drinking. If Quentin could care so much about Eliot’s body, when he wasn’t even actively inhabiting it, the least Eliot can do is try to preserve it until Q’s back. Because he will be back, he has to be. By day three, Eliot feels as if his entire abdomen is on fire; he can’t sit up or eat or drink. He’s trapped flat on his back on his bedroom floor - because he’s so goddamn warm and the wood is so lovely and cold. Every breath feels as if his body is being ripped open again, and his skin is crawling. He can’t tell where the actual need for drugs for the awesome wound he has ends and where withdrawal from his month of lovely drip-fed opiates begins. He doesn’t exactly cave so much as Margo discovers him and fills his prescription for him, then demands he takes it and forces the pills and a disgusting, nutrition drink down him. 

“ What exactly is the point of being addicted to drugs if I don’t even get the heroin chic body?” He says with a raised eyebrow as he looks down his nose at the thick drink. 

Margo just pops a straw into the drink, “ We’ve moved on since the 90s. I can’t have you been unfashionable now can I?” 

Eliot rolls his eyes, laughs and drinks it all. With nutrition and medicine in his body, he feels a little better. Not immediately, but he’s able to sleep. Tucked into Margo’s side with her soft hands stroking his hair and the haze of fresh drugs entering his system, it almost feels like home. The first iteration of home, before mosaics and thatch roofs and children, the home that was finally being far away from Indiana and finding someone who got him ultimately. When he wakes up from a series of increasingly bizarre dreams, she’s still there, dozing softly. 

He shuffles around to find a position that doesn’t hurt, he doesn’t know how long it’s been, but the meds are wearing off. He tries not to disturb her, but her eyes blink open anyway, and she frowns up at him. “ I fell asleep?” She says with that soft confusion that other people so rarely get to see in Bambi. 

“ Yes love, it’s fine, I was just uncomfy, go back to sleep.” He soothes.

Margo looks at her watch; it’s 10.00 pm - quite possibly the earliest either of them has been in bed together. What happened to them? Besides all the trauma obviously. “ I’m going to brush my teeth,” Margo says, gently shucking off Eliot’s arms. She pops another pill out of its silver packet and holds it out to Eliot. He rolls his eyes but takes it, swallows it down with a nasty gulp of stale water that’s been sitting on his bedside all night. He holds the glass out to Margo pleadingly. She takes it and swishes out the room. 

Eliot shuffles around in the bed; now the medicine is a top-up and not a desperately needed craving the effect feels better. He’s sure that this early it should just be a placebo, but maybe Lipson’s done something to them to make the faster acting. He feels all soft and warm like he’s being hugged from inside out. He drifts off to sleep and dreams of the mosaic. Dreams of running his fingers down a sleeping Quentin’s spine and pressing gentle kisses to his shoulder when he, grumbling, finds his way into consciousness. Of gently pulling Quentin back into a tight hug when Q returns, freezing, from his 2nd trip to the bathroom that night - old age is a bitch. Of rolling over and finding himself nose to nose with Teddy, who had snuck in after a nightmare and is terrified that Eliot will send him back to bed. Eliot never does, just promises that if any monsters try and hurt them, he’ll send them all back to hell - no-one hurts Daddy’s boys. Quentin had always groaned at that and at some point, around when Teddy had started getting confused because Eliot was Papa, insisted that Eliot chose a side for the Daddy thing. Either it was a perfectly innocent word used by children to refer to their actual fathers, or it was …  _ Daddy.  _

At some point in the night the pain starts leaking through. His dreams confuse it for the pain of dying, the all-over sickness that they hadn’t been able to solve - not that they could have on earth, but there was something terrible about not even being able to name what was making him feel so shit all the time. Heart disease? Cancer? Some rare fillorian disease? Plain old, old age? All Eliot knew was that it hurt all the time, when he walked when he laughed when he did anything. He would try to hide it for Quentin’s sake, but Q would always know, and Eliot was glad he did. Because even when Eliot thought he was doing a fantastic job of hiding it, Quentin would insist they call it a day on the mosaic and would bring him inside. Where he’d run a bath and wash his hair, even though Quentin’s arthritic hands objected to that, he’d kiss Eliot softly and insist they both drink some fillorian pain-killing tea and go to bed early. 

When Eliot wakes up for a moment he mistakes himself to be back there again, never did he think he’d long for old age. But the smell is all wrong and the pain is all wrong, so localised and this pain is tearing, like his body is being slowly pulled apart whilst never actually moving - never getting any closer to ending. As he comes back to consciousness, he recognises the smell as Margo’s, which usually is comforting, but doesn’t hold a candle to the soft scent of home that Quentin carries. He pulls her closer anyway, grateful for her presence, her warm body. She is good enough; she’s everything that he needs - has always been—his Bambi, perfect in every way. But right now she’s not quite enough; if he could just see Quentin, then it would be fine. He could devote the rest of his time to his recovery no problem, but right now? With no idea how okay Quentin even is? If he’ll survive? He needs to be holding Q, or at least near him. Eliot needs to provide some semblance of being able to look after him. He’d do it right this time, not just shoot blindly trying to keep Quentin for himself selfishly, but protect him, even if it costs magic, or love for himself, or happiness or anything at all. Even if Quentin doesn’t want to be with him, Eliot’ll be damned before he lets anything else happen to him. 

It’s this strength of vision that allows Eliot to hoist himself up out of bed. A full night’s sleep, food and medicine has just about toned down the pain to let him to get up out of bed and into the shower. Then he returns to his vigil. 

When he gets to the health centre, Alice is leaving. She roughly wipes tears out of her eyes as she walks. Eliot reaches out and grabs hold of her arm, scanning her face for signs of what happened. He can feel the panic rising in his chest, fuck Lipson and Margo and fucking everyone for making him go home. If Quentin’s - he can’t even think it - if it’s happened while he’s fucking sleeping he’ll never forgive them. Alice looks at him and chokes out a little laugh, “ he’s fine. He just dumped me.” 

“He’s awake?” Eliot breathes, releasing Alice’s arm. He doesn’t wait for her response, just hobbles as fast as he can into the medical centre. 

Then he’s standing at the foot of Quentin’s bed, and Q’s a mess, covered in scars that look like he’s been shattered and then glued back together. His hairs a shock of white, but it’s long again which makes Eliot smile. He opens his mouth to speak, but Eliot cuts over him, “ I’m sorry. I love you.” Quentin’s sharp little intake of breath buoys Eliot on - his heart is pounding in his chest, but Quentin’s looking at him with those eyes, and he’s smiling. God Eliot’s missed those dimples. “I was scared, I -” Eliot’s voice breaks, “ I’m sorry. I’m sorry all this happened to you. I should have said something. I should have been braver. If you have me, I want to test the concept again.” 

There’s a moment of silence then, “peaches and plums motherfucker,” Quentin says with a laugh, he holds his arms out. With a swooping feeling in his stomach, Eliot climbs up onto the bed and into Q’s arms. For a moment it’s perfect, despite their injuries and the constant harsh beeping of hospital monitors. It’s nothing like the mosaic. They aren’t those people. Here they have a choice, but they’re choosing each other, and that’s enough. Just as Eliot’s settling into Quentin’s warmth surrounding him, he hears a small choked sound from behind him. He shifts to look at Quentin - expecting to see him crying. After all, this hasn’t been exactly a non emotionally charged situation. But he’s not crying - he’s choking.

Quentin’s scrabbling at his throat, his eyes, those beautiful eyes, bugged out red veins appearing across them. “ Fuck, Q, fuck.” Eliot doesn’t know what to do, he’s paralysed for a moment, then the monitors are crying at him, and he’s screaming. Shouting for Lipson, or fucking anyone. He’s pushed out into the hallway, and he stays there listening until he hears the monitor stop screaming, replaced by that repetitive beeping. Eliot feels himself breathe fully again. He walks to the door, but a healer is blocking his way. “ You can’t come in,” Eliot tries to push past her, he needs to see Quentin. How can they be blocking him now? From the bed, Lipson looks at Eliot and shakes her head, “ You can’t see him.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This continues straight on from the end of the last chapter. It's mostly smut, with some recreational drug use.

“ What do you mean it’s because of me?” Eliot has to restrain himself from banging his fist on the wall. He walks around in a little circle instead. Lipson’s trying to be calm, but she’s already explained this five times. “ We don’t know why, but we think there’s some connection between the monster and Quentin-”   
“But I’m not the monster! If I was still possessed Quentin wouldn’t be ill at all!”  
“Yes, but he used your body for a long time.”   
“So what he’s still fucking with me from beyond the grave?”  
“He’s not technically dead, just trapped in the seam. Right now we think that when we pulled Quentin out, we pulled a tiny bit of the monster out too.”  
“But why does that mean Quentin suddenly can’t breathe when he’s near me?”  
“ We don’t know, maybe the monster recognises you -”  
“He’s fucking conscious in there?”  
“ We don’t know, maybe. Or maybe the residue on you is changing the circumstances around Quentin, which affects the spell keeping him alive. It could be anything. We don’t know.”  
“ So what’s the plan? Because I need to see him.”   
“ We’ll do our best, but - “  
“But what?”  
“ We might not be able to fix this.”  
“ That’s not an option.”   
“ It might hurt Quentin to try. He’s only just held together as it is.”  
“ Then get whatever the residue is out of me. I’m fine. Fucking rip me open again. Has Margo still got that axe?”  
Lipson chuckles, and Eliot has an urge to punch her that reminds him far too much of his Indiana days. “What?” He asks tersely.   
“ Quentin said the same thing. The pair of you refuse to be apart and are totally willing to kill yourselves for each other. It would be romantic if it weren’t so stupid.”   
Eliot’s heart squeezes. He swallows, that’s what got them into this mess: Quentin’s bravery, his willingness to self-sacrifice. Eliot’s hardly even sacrificing anything. “ You cannot let him kill himself for me again.”  
“ Do you think I’d let that happen ?”  
Eliot huffs in annoyance.“ So what am I meant to do now?”  
“Now you go away, the pair of you work on recovering. You call each other in the meantime. It doesn’t seem like the circumstances are changed by you talking, just the physical closeness of your bodies.” 

Eliot goes straight to the pharmacy and fills his second prescription, then off-campus. He shoots Margo a text saying he’s fine but wants to be alone, which is true, even if massively out of character. Well, only half true. He realises that when he’s two drinks in - what’s the point of staying sober for someone who can’t even be near him? He’s drinking at a hedge bar that is weirdly full for one in the afternoon - but hey that’s magicians for you. He notices a short guy with shoulder-length blondish hair by the bar. He’s drinking something with a straw and obviously checking Eliot out. Eliot shots back the rest of his drink and walks over. This he can do, he’s had enough practise. It should be effortless really, it always was. All he has to do is shove down any and all inner feelings and focus exclusively on the outer. Luckily there’s plentiful substances to aid in that.   
He leans over the bar, grateful for something to hold on to - he left his stick at the table, didn’t think it would help him with his seduction. The guy smiles at him and up close he doesn’t look anything like Q, not really. His eyes are much smaller, his face much thinner. But his hairs the right colour and he’s the right size, so … good enough? It’s fine for Eliot to think like that, it’s not like either of them are pretending this is more than it is. A flirt at the bar, a quick fuck, a different kind of fullness to replace any emotional maw. Easy peasy. Eliot gets the attention of the bartender and orders a whisky for himself, “ What are you drinking?” He asks, feeling the assuredness in his voice return, he slips into the act he perfected years ago. He doesn’t argue when the man tells him a long island iced tea. It’s a shitty drink, but whatever people can drink what they want. This man isn’t his friend, he doesn’t want him to be.  
“ I’m Eliot,” He says as he hands the drink over, “ Rupert.” The man responds. He’s nothing like Quentin, aside from the outdated silly name. Where Q would blush and wriggle deliciously under Eliot’s piercing, evaluating gaze Rupert returns it. Rupert makes it obvious he likes what he sees by stepping closer to Eliot and taking a sip from his drink. He makes eye contact as he drinks, then, his eyes flicking down Eliot’s body. His soft pink lips suck at the straw and Eliot feels a warmth low in his belly as he hollows his cheeks slightly. He lets the straw gently slip out of his plump lips. Quentin would try that and worry about looking stupid, probably end up somehow poking himself in the eye with the straw. Rupert makes it sexy, like actual sexy, movie star sexy. Not as hot as anything Quentin does without even trying though. Eliot pushes those thoughts aside with more alcohol. He swallows down another one of his pills and feels that comforting pull down away from the top layer of his consciousness again.   
“Anything fun?” Rupert asks, leaning in to speak into Eliot’s ear. “Not really,” Eliot says and means it. “ You?” He asks, raising his eyebrows. Rupert chuckles and hooks a finger into one of Eliot belt loops and gently tugs him further into the bar. They stop in a dark corner booth—Eliot in first, back against the wall, then Rupert. Eliot wonders if he should be concerned if some PTSD bit of his brain should be stressed about being trapped. He’s not, hard to feel concerned about anything right now with the twin effects of magical opioids and alcohol. Rupert pulls out a little baggy, “It’s something a hedge friend of mine made up, just makes everything slightly nicer. A bit like MD, but without the after-effects or the loving everyone thing. You keep your head, but everything feels so good.” Eliot considers how much he should not be taking hedge witch potions, but hey he’s meant to be relaxing right? He takes a big key full.   
Rupert’s description was accurate; the world just becomes that bit better. Everything is soft and beautiful, lights bleed out into the world, and everybody looks as if a master oil painter has painted them. Best of all, the combination of drugs has managed to maroon Eliot at this moment. He has no past, no future, no boyfriend he can’t touch. He’s just Eliot in this hedge bar, kissing this man he’s only just met. No thoughts. Just the feeling of stubble scraping his jaw, teeth pulling at his lips. The taste of salty skin and chemical perfume on this man’s neck. The sense of his hand, surprisingly large, on the back of his neck. “ You want to get out of here?” Rupert says, his hand squeezing at the top of Eliot’s thigh. He looks pointedly at where Eliot’s dick is straining against his trousers.   
“Yeah, your place?” Eliot breaths out, before wrapping his hand in the hair at the nape of Rupert’s neck and tugging him up to his lips. The kiss is immediately deep. Everything feels so intense. Every touch like electric shocks, lighting up nerve endings he didn’t even know he had lighting up and sparkling. His whole body feels like a freshly poured drink - bubbling up and flashing into the air, but not getting any smaller. Eliot wants to taste everything. Rupert pulls him to his feet without breaking the kiss. Luckily his apartment is close, with everything so intense and beautiful it’s hard to get anywhere. Eliot keeps wanting to stop to stroke the brickwork of the buildings, to kiss Rupert, to get lost in the softness of his own skin.   
They get there eventually, and they’re hardly in the door when Eliot is pushed roughly back against it, and after a quick kiss to his mouth, Rupert is on his knees. He pulls Eliot’s jeans down and gasps softly when his hard dick emerges, fuck how long has he been hard? “ You want to suck my dick, baby?” Eliot asks, feeling the words come out of him like they’re rehearsed lines. A script he memorised when he arrived in New York and promised to be gay and proud and as far away from Indiana as possible. “ Can I have another bump?” He asks reflexively; he doesn’t want to be having thoughts right now. Rupert laughs and passes up the bag and key. The powder’s stinging his nostrils when Rupert takes as much of him as he can into his mouth. Eliot almost drops the bag, but he doesn’t muscle memory.   
“Fuck,” He seals the bag and lets it flutter down to the floor. Rupert’s taking him as far as he can down his throat. He can feel the hardness of the roof of his mouth against the head of his dick. Then just warm, wet pressure surrounding him. Then panting Rupert pulls off, starts licking at the head. He pumps it with one hand while the other massages his balls. “ Oh-” Eliot’s head hits the door with a hollow thunk, and Eliot can feel his legs wobbling as Rupert sucks one into his mouth. “ Fuck, Rupert, we need - “ He chokes out.   
Rupert looks up at him with a sly smile, “what?”   
“I, ah -” Rupert doesn’t stop stroking his dick, just keeps looking up at him inquisitively, “I have - I need to sit down.”   
Rupert hums and takes the head of Eliot’s dick into his mouth again, just for a second. He releases it with an obscene pop. “ what if I don’t want you to sit down?”   
“No I, I have a thing, an injury,” Eliot says. He doesn’t feel any pain right now, hasn’t since that first bump, but his knees are shaking, and his core muscles are doing basically nothing to keep him upright.   
Rupert scoops up the powder, drops it into his pocket and stands up, “are you okay?” He holds open the door to the bedroom, “ we can stop if you want.”   
“No, I - really don’t want to stop.” Eliot stumbles, uncoordinated into the bedroom. Fuck. He’s not any soberer now, how the fuck did he get home if he can barely walk now. Is it possible that all of the blood that was focused on keeping him somewhat upright has filled his dick? He sits down heavily on the bed.   
Rupert is looking at him, appraisingly, “how drunk are you?”   
Eliot groans, “ honestly it’s not that. I, ugh.” In lieu of an explanation, Eliot unbuttons his shirt to reveal the puckered scar that runs across his body.  
“Shit,” Rupert says, barely containing his revulsion.   
“I’ll keep my shirt on, don’t worry,” Eliot says, he wonders if he should be offended at that. Probably, probably something for hungover Eliot to ruminate on. He puts it in the frankly overflowing box of insecurities to worry about when sober. “ I left my stick at the bar. I guess alcohol helped me get here, but now - “  
“Does it hurt?” Rupert cuts across him, staring transfixed at the scar.   
“ Yes. Not now, I’m too high for it to hurt now.” Eliot says with a little laugh. Then drags the conversation back to sex, he doesn’t want to develop any kind of emotional connection with this guy. “Look if you want to keep sucking my dick I’d love that. If you want me to get out of your house, that’s fine too. I’ll just whip up a portal and fuck off.”   
“Oh no. I’m not done with you yet.” Rupert says, effortlessly sliding back into a deep, suave voice. “ Do you want to keep your shirt on?”   
Eliot thinks for a moment then nods. Being completely naked is too much like real sex, fuck he should have fucked him in the bathroom and be done with it. Whatever, a thought for next time. Eliot buttons his shirt back up, then tugs Rupert up to kiss him. He licks into Rupert’s mouth. The man’s low moans make him proud and spur him on to wrap his hand around Rupert’s cock. He gasps as Eliot squeezes the base then pulls his hands back up. “ Fuck me.” He demands.   
“What no foreplay?” Rupert asks teasingly, but he’s getting naked already, flipping Eliot around on the bed and yanking his pants down. Fuck Eliot forgot how good it feels to be thrown around in bed. He’s surprised that Rupert can do it, but he’s strong for such a small man. A little like Quentin’s compact athletic body, but - Eliot stops that thought in its track. Back to sex - no room for emotions when you’re getting thoroughly fucked.  
“ Why would you rather take it -” Eliot grunts as he feels Rupert do the cleaning spell. “Ugh, warning maybe?” He asks into the pillow, wriggling as he gets used to the weird sensation.   
Rupert laughs and bites his ass gently. “ I thought we weren’t taking it slow,” He says into Eliot’s skin. Eliot can hear a lube slicked hand stroking Rupert’s dick, then a moment of silence he knows will be Rupert doing the tuts. An intense pressure pushes into him, almost painful, stretching - like hours of foreplay rolled up into one intense moment. Rupert kisses the small of his back, “ you okay?” He murmurs.   
Once the intensity has faded, and the throbbing of his cock is his number one concern again. Eliot manages to say “fuck me already,”.   
Eliot feels like he’s being split open, it’s been so long since he’s bottomed even with the prep spells it’s weird. He forgot the specific sensation of immediate wrongness and something akin to pain, then fullness and pleasure. A slow-burning pleasure across his stretched rim and an intense, high pleasure where Rupert’s dick touches his prostate. He bites down on the pillow under his face and tilts his hips up. Rupert holds onto his hip bones and pounds into him with a punishing pace.   
Neither of them says anything; they don’t need to. They know what they want, no need to sweet talk each other anymore. Rupert grunts every time he slams back into the tight heat of Eliot and Eliot finds himself making an embarrassing keening noise every time he pulls out. Rupert leans over Eliot’s body and wraps his hand around the bedframe so he can pound into Eliot with more leverage and Eliot’s brain short circuits. All he can think is what he feels. All he is is the waves of pleasure, the way his whole body is rocked forward as he’s fucked. His dick rubs against the bedsheets in a way that just borders on pain. He reaches down under him and wraps his hand around it, allowing himself to gently fuck into his fist as Rupert’s thrusts move him.   
With a cry, Rupert comes. His body goes limp on top of Eliot, and he kisses along Eliot’s neck. “Sorry, you’re just so hot,” Rupert says, not moving to touch Eliot. Gross, this is why he so rarely does this - if he were planning on telling Margo about this, he’d be able to bitch about it with her. As it is, he just shakes Rupert off him and rolls onto his back. He closes his eyes and holds a memory of Quentin at the mosaic in his mind as he strokes his orgasm out.


End file.
